


International Fanworks Day 2019

by Eff_Dragonkiller



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, NCIS, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Author did little research, Evil Governments, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, International Fanworks Day 2019, Magic, Not Canon Compliant, Rough Draft, The Author Regrets Nothing, Undercover Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 09:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17805788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eff_Dragonkiller/pseuds/Eff_Dragonkiller
Summary: 1. ThresholdHermione Granger made a promise to support her friend. And she was going to make sure she followed through. No matter the cost.2. God & Country (pt 2)Undercover at the SGC, NCIS Agent Tony DiNozzo has some difficult challenges to overcome.





	1. God & Country (pt 2)

**Author's Note:**

> So, for IFD I like to offer small parts of the works that I've been working on all year. Helps me feel like I'm contributing to fandom even when I rarely post anything.
> 
> Feel free to comment on the stories that you would like to see continued. No promises, but I like to know what caught my reader's attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a continuation (with a big time gap) of the ficlet God & Country from last year. If you haven't, you should go read that.

**\- Part 1 -**

Tony was staring at the murder wall in his shoebox office. They were once again on the 31st floor, taking up what used to be four offices and a not-prime lab - the lighting sucked. The new investigations unit for security now had three additional staff, besides Tony, and was nestled nicely in between Colonel Mitchelll’s mostly unused office and the entrance to the completely sick SGC physical library and archives center.

 

The NCIS agent had a bet going with himself. He’d buy himself a bottle of bubbly -the nice kind- if Gibbs ever tried to recruit Theodora Dragolzkov, the head librarian. Because she was all fire and spice and O’Neill’s Admin had a form email he sent in reply to people complaining about her.

 

Which boiled down to: Ms. Dragolskov is in charge of the library, and unless the world will definitely end if you can’t have access to an item in her collection, you have to follow her rules. And if the world is ending, there’s paperwork for that too.  

 

Gibbs liked hiring people who wouldn’t let him run over them; but he didn’t like working with them. Of course, Tony was certain they would carry Dragolzkov’s dead body out of her office before they got her to leave.

 

Which wasn’t impossible at the SGC. Tony sighed as he straightened his chair and placed the bouncy ball back on his desk. He was avoiding the point. The case had nowhere to go.

 

He was pretty sure he knew who had tried to get the designs on the perpetual battery. Tony was even pretty sure that the distraction had only worked because Pierce was sleeping with both Taft and Boone. The only way Daste could have known that Pierce was sleeping with both of his colleagues was to have also slept with him. Because Pierce was discreet, ridiculously so. The man was so private that he’d been a suspect for a while just on that. But Tony had followed him for weeks in a time-elapsed recording to see if Daste had slept with him, and nothing. For as much as the month before the crime Daste had only interacted with her subordinates in the lab.

 

There were no records of cameras before that, so Tony had been required to give up that line of investigation. Especially once questioning of Pierce, Daste, and all their co-workers revealed the same thing. Pierce and Daste weren’t in a relationship.

 

So, he had some of the picture, but not all of it. And honestly, he didn’t have enough of it to make any arrests. Also, Tony had to consider if an arrest was the best move. Afterall, the end goal wasn’t to stop crime in the Mountain it was to pull down the organization selling SGC secrets to the most ridiculous buyers.

 

“Tone, you here?” Cam knocked on the door to his office.

 

“Doors open, Mitchelll.” The Marine replied, “What’s up, Colonel?”

 

“SG-14 just got pulled for the Raffelton Operation,” the airman replied with a grimace as Tony started to pack up his desk. “The team currently scheduled for it had a mass hiking accident. Something about a broken bridge and hanging upside down from a rope.”

 

Tony stared at his superior officer as the other man motioned for him to follow. “Please tell that’s not normal for you people. That’s the kind of crap that happens on MacGyver! Not in real life.”

 

Cam shrugged, “It’s a little normal. I’m sorry to have to break it to you, deNavo.” The colonel said with a shit eating grin, “but we are living the plot of a science fiction tv show.”

 

“I know, I know,” Tony muttered as he made his way to medical for the pre-mission exam and blood work. Those vampires had it down to a science. “O’Neill’s gonna freaking cackle when he realizes I know hate wormhole extreme.”

 

Cam gave his second a pat on the shoulder as he shoved him into medical, “we all do.”

The Infirmary was fairly crowded when they reached it. The two soldiers had to politely squeeze in among the buzzy staff.

 

“This is Dr. Lam and her wonderful assistants: Doc Pashmeen and Doc Carver.” Mitchell introduced off-hand as the Doctors moved around the room.

 

“You wouldn’t happen to be a surgeon, Dr. Carver, would you?” Tony asked, a light smattering of laughter coming from the people around. Though Dr. Carver’s face was clear that he didn’t appreciate the very old joke.

 

“We’re going to Raffelton with you today,” Dr. Lam said moving forward to take care of him. “So, let’s make this fast. Any muscle or joint pain, stomach distress, swelling, or skin irritation?”

 

“Nope.” Tony said.

 

“Any open cuts or sores?”

 

Tony presented his hands; the cold weather had been doing a number on his hands. “Just on my cuticles.”

 

Dr. Lam took his fingers in her hands, tugging over one of the side lamps, checking to make sure it was just dry skin. “We’ll layer some liquid skin on it. You have field gloves? Good. Don’t forget to grab them in the ready room.”

 

One of the phlebotomists came to take the minimum blood sample, for comparison in case they come back from the planet and start turning blue - or so Tony was told the first time he’d done this. In the two months he’d been stationed at the SGC, Tony had gone through the gate a whopping ten times and he had yet to catch anything that would make him turn blue. According to Ford, Harriman had set up a betting pool about it. Mitchelll figured it would happen eventually and O’Neill just said he was lucky.

 

Turning blue wasn’t particularly fun, apparently.

 

“Alright, People.” O’Neill said as he walked in, attention more focused on the paperwork in his hands then on them. “You’re not all going to fit in the conference room, and since we’re already running behind schedule, the mountain came to Mohammad. Dr. Lam, the brief please.”

 

“The planet we’re headed to is [Px3591-y5], the closest population to the gate is the town of Raffelton. Pre-Industrial, the SGC has a trade agreement with them for set amounts of Naquada ore, and medicinal planets, in return for advanced medical treatment procedures and cotton cloth.”

 

It wasn’t the weirdest trade agreement the SGC had. Cam had told him that there was a planet who traded them diamonds and gold for paint, so…

 

“They reached out to us last week,” Dr. Lam continued, “the town had come down with an illness they call ‘Weeping Death’. We’re prepared to go through with anti-virals and antibiotics, and several other emergency supplies. As well as a provisional vaccine.”

 

“We’re not getting the vaccine?” An airman from another team asked.

 

“No,” She shook her head, “just in case we’re wrong, and this isn’t what we think it is. The best protection for us not getting it, is to obey all precautionary procedures.”

 

Which would be why Ford was not in medical with the rest of his team. The two empty spots on their roster were filled with soldiers pulled from the waiting list. Airman or Marines who would like to be on an SG team but weren’t normally. They made up a large portion of the security and auxiliary staff for the SGC.

 

“So, gloves and face masks at all times. Eat and drink only from our own supplies, and wash thoroughly, frequently.”

 

“And you’ll all be coming home through the Zeta site. So, don’t go to Raffelton wearing your favorite ball cap. You won’t be getting it back. Well,” O’Neill qualified, “you won’t be getting it back in the same shape you left it on Zeta.”

 

“Which means,” Cam took up as he paced to the front of the team members, “no irreplaceable pictures, jewelry, watches, or equipment. Quartermaster has left watches and radios already for us to take in the ready room. No excuses.”

 

The infirmary rang out with, “Yes, sir”. Tony’s voice among them.

Down in the ready room, Cam checked the fit of his borrowed vest, tugging on the different adjustments. “I hate these types of missions. They’re worse than the ones where people try to kill us.”

 

Tony startled, he’d been feeling pretty good about this one. Nothing questionable about it that he could see. Just a US military base doing some goodwill operations. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

 

“It’s just hellish,” the colonel grimaced, “You’ll see.”

Which sounded like Tony had to re-evaluate his expectations; Cam wasn’t one for pessimism. He’d come back from being shot at with ridiculous quips like: “guess they weren’t in a good mood.”

 

In the shuffle Dr. Lam, tugged Tony discretely aside. “Normally this isn’t a problem. There are clauses in all the civilian and military contracts. You’ve got some grey area, so I wanted to cover my bases.”

 

 

“What?” Tony asked juggling the tablet she’d shoved at him.

 

“We think it’s plague, the illness in Raffelton.” She gave a so-so motion. “Not our plague, or the one you had, but a form of Y. Pestis. You’ve already had it, regardless of its similarity or difference. You have antibodies for it, we used them to create a vaccine. Though I’m not telling people I got the blood straight from you and not from the CDC research lab.”

 

Tony raised a brow, “And no one thought it was strange that the CDC just gave it to you?”

 

“We have a contact at the CDC who is fully briefed on the nature of Project Bluebook. They’re routinely updated on the illnesses and diseases that we expose the world to through the gate.” She made an impatient gesture. “We’re at the forefront of disease treatment and pathology here in the Mountain - we have to be; the CDC actually sent me a sample of your blood just after your illness. They’ll think I used research from that when I tell them we had mercy mission to a village showing signs of the plague. My staff here is under the impression that I request a new sample from the CDC once we diagnosed it as the plague. Hurry up and sign the papers. We cower over here much longer there’s going to be some talk.”

 

“Oh.” It was a standard disclaimer for use of samples in medical research. In fact, it was so familiar Tony figured it might actually be the same one he signed when Brad took samples for the CDC. “It’s cool doc. I’m happy going through that nightmare will help someone.”

**-Part 2 –**

It didn’t occur to Tony, in the way that meant he’d had too much on his plate for too long, that doing a mercy mission in a village that has the bubonic plague meant that he was coming up against the bubonic plague - again. So, it was the worst of surprises when the team gets close enough to the village to start smelling it.

 

There was something tangible in the air as they approached the village. Something that reached into the hindbrain and caused them to hesitate just a second. Death was visiting the village and Tony wasn’t entirely sure the being wasn’t there to stay.

 

Plague was bad. It was nasty and gross and having survived it once Tony had a whole new appreciation for the entire middle ages and the millions of people killed by a bacterium scary enough that it still caused pathologists and epidemiologists to quake in fear.

 

“Alright, stop.” Dr. Lam said from the front of the group. “This is where the masks and gloves come out.” She put action to her words, pulling out the safety gear that no one had been let through the gate without. “We have eight hours to do as much good as we can before we go home. Set your watches. We meet back hear with 15 mins to spare.”

He’d been carrying a box of medical supplies, as opposed to the clean food and water, soap or lye that others had been saddled with. So, Tony followed Dr. Lam and her staff into the central hall, an enormous gathering place to rival any government building on Earth. It was a truly spectacular construction. Tony could just imagine how the voices of the town’s folk would echo and linger on the day-to-day, but for now it was filled with the whispered hush of death.

 

Pallets made up of roughhewn cloth and furs made rows and rows of the ill. The smell of bile and blood was thick in the air, and Tony swallowed thickly against it. He placed the box he was carrying down on a table where many of the other supplies were gathered and took a step back and out of the way.

 

The infectious disease ward at Bethesda didn’t have mirrors. And the see-through walls weren’t glass, they were plastic. The UV lights that he had spent a small eternity under had turned things a strange bluish-purple and he’d spent a significant amount of the time he’d been awake trying to ignore the hazy dark tone everything had taken.

 

Which was all to say that simply because it was hard to see his reflection in the infectious disease ward, didn’t mean he hadn’t.

 

Pale and waxy skin, bloodshot eyes with dark bruising under them, and a perpetual red stain around his mouth once he’d started coughing up blood.

 

Tony pressed trembling fingers together, reminding himself that the lack of sensation was in his memory, not his body. He knew he needed to leave the hall, everywhere he looked was another reminder of being trapped dying in that plastic box. But he couldn’t think clearly enough to walk away. Couldn’t even move.

 

He didn’t see Dr. Lam’s wide-eyed expression in the narrowing field or his vision, and he didn’t see the doctor grab Colonel Mitchell and whisper harshly to him. What he did notice was the feel of a strong hand cupping his elbow and leading him back into the daylight, away from the death that filled the hall.

 

“You’re okay. You’re okay, we’re out - it’s okay.” Mitchell said lowly pressing Tony back against a nearby wall, keeping an eye on both his subordinate and the people walking by. “You’re okay, Tony. Just breath.”

 

Cameron pulled him farther away from the town, until the nearest house is barely within sight, and they can safely tug down their masks. The feel of fresh air against the sweaty skin of his mouth and nose jolt him like a shock. “If you need to get sick, no one will blame you. This one is bad.”

 

“No, I - ah, had it.” Tony jerked his head back in the direction of the doctors and the town. “Vaccine is from my blood. Not 100% match, but hopefully it will help. I just-” he took a few more deep breaths and forced himself out of the crouch he’d stooped to. “It was just too much, the reminder, for a minute I was back under the UV lights at Bethesda, struggling to breath after coughing up blood.” He shook, “I couldn’t feel my fingertips for a minute.”

 

“Damn.” Cam shook his head. “I’ve been exposed to some nasty shit, not to Jack O’Neill levels but still pretty bad; never like that though.”

 

Mitchell frowned at him and Tony worried just a little about what was going through the other man’s head. Most of the time the SGC’s second-in-command was a fairly easy-going man, and what he thought was easily read across his face. Other times it was a closed book and a startling reminder that Mitchelll was just as much a combat trained soldier as any other under the mountain.

 

“I’m okay,” Tony shook his head, “I’m staying.”

 

Mitchelll’s frown softens just a little, maybe around the edges if Tony could describe it that way. “I don’t like that Dr. Lam knew about this and didn’t say anything. I’m going to bring it to O’Neill’s attention, it’s against policy to force a member back into a situation that knowingly touches recent trauma.”

 

“I passed my psych visits.” Tony grumbled a little.

 

“I’m pretty sure what you did - Tony, was make sure you put on the right mask and charm the psychologist so well that they forgot what their name was let alone why you were in their office.”

 

To Tony’s shock and discomfort, he could feel the flush heating his cheeks.

 

“O’Neill wanted you to have backup that knew you were who you are without actually knowing enough to get you in trouble.” Mitchelll shook his head, “So I won’t ask, and I won’t go looking, but O’Neill needs to know about these types of things - because if you’ve got enough shit on your record that the plague is a fucking non-issue than I’m not above reading one of the base psychologists into the operation to get you help.”

 

He frowned at Tony and Tony frowned back. But the undercover agent didn’t say anything. He knew that any defense he attempted would just solidify Mitchelll’s argument.

 

“How’d you go about getting me out of stuff like this?” Tony finally settled on asking. “Won’t people be concerned?”  


“It’s the entire reason you were stationed with SG-14,” Mitchelll pulled his mask back over his face and jerked his head back in the direction of the town. “So that if you had to stay on base it wouldn’t be a problem.”

 

As senior officer on the mission Cam had the privilege and obligation of checking in on each of the men and women he’d brought with him. Out of compassion, and probably no small need to keep Tony within his sight, he tugged the other man with him. Masks and gloves back on, they walked out of the field.

 

“Would you like me to go relieve Caradoc?” Tony asked. Timothy Caradoc was a young kid, currently station by the gate just in case of an emergency, on either side. “He can fill in wherever.”

 

“I’d rather not.” The colonel admitted. “Caradoc has a seven-minute mile. I picked him specifically to be the one on watch at the gate. Besides, he’s got experience handling surprises and the steady focus that would make him a superb sniper. No, we’ve got some supplies to haul out to the grave diggers. I’ll have Nelson and Calebs switch with us, unless you’d like to go back to base?”

 

Tony snorted, “and be the laughing stock of the Marine Corps until some idiot with too many hormones and not enough sense gets the galactic version of poison ivy because they wiped with the wrong plant? No thanks.”

 

His breath hitched just a bit at the reminder of the truly ridiculous rash McGee had ended up with that one time. All over his body and probably his ‘goods’, itching and complaining, and bathing in calamine and oatmeal. He’d looked like the victim of a plague.

 

Even in his thoughts Tony winced at the ill-timed joke. Plague was serious, it’d been awhile since the reference had even been in his vocabulary. Must have been the situation. Turning him all up in knots.

 

He hadn’t heard from his probie in several months. Originally Rossi had emailed his team like clockwork, a series of pre-written messages that did a lot of complaining and sharing very little of actual sustenance. Gibbs had never replied, and Tony hadn’t even tried with Ziva. Hadn’t ever been that masochistic. But he’d completed enough letters to be persistent and convincing for McGee and Abby. Abby had replied to all of them - first trying to be encouraging and then later, ignoring his complaints to rattle on about things in her life.

 

McGee had replied every so often with progressively shorter and terser messages, until Tony had received his privilege for mail only to open the latest email from McGee to a scathing rhetoric of his incompetence as an investigator, his selfishness as a ‘friend’ and that his overly dramatic complaints were getting on McGee’s last nerve. Any of the messages sent afterwards were deleted unopened.

 

It hurt that their years as teammates culminated in a scathing email barely two months after Tony left. But he figured it might have been going that direction anyways. Didn’t help it hurt less.  

 

“What are we hauling, anyways?” Tony asked, setting his sled for a more even distribution of weight.

 

“Lye.” Cam said, first grunting at the weight and then just about bursting laughing at the startled look on the investigator’s face. “About the only chemical compound known to man to get rid of bodies and be safe on the environment.”

 

“Lye?” Tony parroted, still blinking wide eyes, guiding the cart on the rough track other people, hauling much more sordid packages, had left in the dirt. “Safe on the environment?”

 

“Well,” Cam clarified. “The stuff the SGC sends out off-world is at least highly processed but natural and organic. We have contracts with certain planets for stuff like this. You’d be surprised the amount of planets who don’t have hygienic corpse disposal policies.”

 

“I don’t know.” Tony grunted, “I know some cities on Earth that don’t have hygienic corpse disposal policies. Fished a lot of damn bodies out of the river.”

 

Mitchell snorted, “Pretty sure that wasn’t because of municipal policy.”

 

They’d been working for a while, the planet’s sun - a little redder than Sol - had barely been up when the SGC team had trudged through the gate, and now the large thing was just cresting the tree line. The grave diggers were climbing out of the pit. This crew would wash in the temporary bath house another team had built and cleaning themselves with harsh soap and bleach water. The second shift were settling done for a mid-morning meal before getting dirty working with earth and lye.

 

“I killed my first man before I graduated high school.” Mitchelll suddenly said as they observed the Marines in the modified equipment distributed chemicals. Making sure that the lye was evenly distributed across the dead.

 

“Drunk driving?” Tony asked, shifting his attention so that Mitchelll observed one way and he guarded the other man’s back. Which, honestly, was probably the point considering how clammy he felt. Tony had been getting more than a little uncomfortable. Focusing a little too much on how it felt that he’d come so damn close to being a body like the ones in the pit.

 

“No, it was drugs.” Cam admitted rather baldly. Not watching Tony’s face. “I had a reaction that the dealer didn’t expect. Ended up snapping his neck.”

 

“Parents cover it up?” Tony asked, not looking at cam and trying hard not to judge. Even if all he could think about was the number of times his father had covered up something bad enough to hurt other people. Tony couldn’t swear that his father’s closet didn’t have a body buried in it somewhere.

 

“No. Well,” Cam qualified, “it wasn’t my intention to cover it up. I went straight to the sheriff myself when I woke up the next morning next to a dead body.” He snorted, “You now have proof- I’ve always been this tight laced. Actually, back then I was worse.”

 

He shrugged, “But I’d already been accepted to the Air force academy and it was a small town. I was related -still am- to half the members of the deputies, and the Sheriff had done a tour in Vietnam with my dad. Nobody wanted to deal with a trial. The DA and the Sheriff and the County Judge - everyone hushed the details and chalked it up to one for the good guys. But I’ve -”

 

“Always felt dirty?” Tony finished when Cam didn’t continue. “Like nothing that came after was good enough to replace that one incident.”

 

Cam took his attention off the gravediggers to peer at Tony, even though the man didn’t look back, “have your own incident?”

 

“Not like that,” Tony said after a minute. “but I came pretty close once or twice.”

 

The air was startlingly still for the silent moment between the two men. Just the somber towns folk eating a quiet meal and the Marines in the pit, shifting chemicals and moving bodies. He hadn’t realized how sparse the animal life was. No birds in the trees, no small mammals rustling in the shrubbery or the fields. Not even rats.

 

In Tony’s experience there were always rats.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Tony finally asked, “I could have you arrested. Maybe not now, but I’m good at what I do. I’d dig up the dirt and by the time I’m back where I belong, you’re whole life could be in shambles.”

 

“I doubt there’s any evidence to find after this long. It’d be an old case and no one pressing for answers, except you.” Cam shook his head. “You’ve got a handler, and I don’t doubt that he’s good at what he does. But he’s across the country, I figured you need a friend who knows who you really are.”

 

Tony blinked, that couldn’t sound like what he thought it was. Except, yeah, there was a gentle blush flushing the colonel’s cheekbones. He ticked the characteristics off on his fingers. Close contact over prolonged time. Trust in the face of shared stresses. Enforced intimacy through shared secrets. “That’s some bullshit emotional manipulation right there.”

 

“Are you going to call me on it?” Mitchelll shrugged, “You don’t need me to access security files for research anymore. O’Neill could be your inside contact or someone in security. If you wanted off SG-14…”

 

Tony takes the time to think about it. Must admit he’s not so concerned with Cam’s motives. The man’s subtle-ish, but he’s not naturally manipulative. He’d have a way easier time dealing with politicians and the crap candidates they funnel into the mountain if that were true. And when it came down to it, they did more good at the SGC than bad.

 

“Stockholm must set in damn fast.” Tony finally admitted not looking in his friend’s direction. Sometimes giving in was easy. It was admitting it that could be hard.

 

Cam snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to have a personal writing website where I kept copies of the first two or three years IFD ficlets. (Ie: How Corrupt). The website has been taken down, but would anyone be interested in me posting those first couple of years teasers?


	2. Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This actually drops you into the middle of an ongoing Harry Potter fic (which has yet to be finished/posted), but I don't think it's a big problem.

**\- Part 1 -**

“Good Morning, Mr. Weasley.” The secretary smiled as the father and his visitor walked past the front desk.

“Ah, Hello, Helen.” Mr. Weasley smiled absentmindedly, “Anything come in today?”

 

“No mail, sir.” She reached around for a thin scroll. “But these were sent to our department this morning. New regulations on Muggle Artefact mismanagement.”

 

“Muggle mis-,” He humphed, “Without contact the department?”

 

“No, sir.” The secretary gave rueful shrug, “No one’s been happy.”

 

“Of course not. Has Gennarro seen these?” He jerked his head up from the scroll to glance back where Harry had been waiting patiently. “Ah, Harry. This looks like it’s going to take a minute to sort through, why don’t you head back to my office - 31-AB, Weasley is on the door - you can settle in for a little while before the hearing.”

 

“Sounds fine, Mr. Weasley.” Harry agreed. Just in time, too. Another wizard in a truly ridiculous robe set in orange and blue stripes, yelling for Mr. Weasley’s attention and already holding the inflamatory scroll and waving it ahead of him.

 

“Have you seen these Arthur!”

 

 **There was a woman sitting in front of Arthur** **’s desk, having re-arranged the furniture, though Harry was only guessing - but he figured Mr. Weasley didn’t normally have his desk in the middle of the room for a tea service.** “Mr. _Potter_ , I presume? Hem. Hem. I do apologize for ambushing you, but it really is for a very good cause.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“My name is Delores Umbrage, Mr. Potter, I’m the Senior Undersecretary for the Minister, Cornelius Fudge. A wonderful Minister that man.”

 

Considering the Administration had spent the past several months slandering him on the front page of the newspaper, Harry thought it best not to comment on Minister Fudge. “What are you doing here, Ms. Umbrage?”

 

“You’ve created quite a bit of trouble for the Minster, Mr. Potter.” She frowned at him, exaggerating her toad-like appearance. “We used to be enemies, your family and mine - going back generations, hundreds of years even. But we don’t have to be. I’m working for the betterment of the Wizarding World, I just need you to work with me. Surely, that sounds reasonable.”

 

“Reasonable?” Harry had found that what most people in the Wizarding world considered reasonable was what he found deplorable. “What do you need from me?”

 

“I’m sure you have no intention of [injuring] the Ministry,” Delores sighed. “But your statement to the press about You-Know-Who needs to be rescinded. People need to trust their government, Minister Fudge says that you were just confused, you agree that this sorrowful event wasn’t what you thought, and everyone can go home happy.”

 

Harry kind of figured that a happy Delores Umbrage, with her plastic grin, was a terrifying prospect. And if all her ancestors had been as morally corrupt as she was, the Potter family probably had a pretty good reason for that blood feud.

 

“Why?” Harry shrugged, acting casual. Still not taking a seat - she never offered- it seemed a bad idea to move away from the doorway. “I just told the truth. Peter Pettigrew was there at the graveyard that night. He killed Ce-Cedric Diggory,” He paused to swallow that dry spot in his throat. “He killed Cedric Diggory. He did some ritual with flesh, blood, and bones, and Voldemort came back. I think if you want people to trust the government, then maybe Minister Fudge should stop lying.”

 

She flushed an unpleasant color and the smile on her face, already plastic near the corners, froze into something far more like a grimace. She placed her tea cup down carefully. “I can see that you’re still confused. Perhaps whatever did happen in the graveyard was dark and painful. You don’t want to think about it too much, and you’re just a boy, but Harry, You-Know-Who isn’t back. He can’t be.”

 

Harry didn’t like the direction this was going in. And it was all good that the Undersecretary was trying to keep her temper, because so was he. The cup of quills rattled on the desk. “Dumbledore agreed with me. The thing that happened, the ritual I was victim of, the people who came - it all happened. Where do you get off telling me that it didn’t?”

 

She narrowed her eyes and her hand tightened on the wand in her lap. Harry knew he was already in trouble for defensive magic earlier in the summer, but there was no way that he was letting some ministry [fob] just curse him. His wand slid into his hand.

 

“You arrogant stupid child! Do you know what rumors of the Dark Lord’s resurrection could do? People would panic! No one would trust the Ministry! Cornelius would-”

 

“You don’t care at all about the people,” Harry attacked. “You only care that your _friend_ the minister doesn’t lose his job.” Harry Snorted, “Good luck with that.”

 

“Why you-”

 

The door banged against the wall and in the entry stood Arthur Weasley, backlit by the hall lights his face cast into shadow and a fierce scowl etching lines in his face. Harry had never seen the easy going Weasley Father so incandescent with rage. Not even when Ginny was presumed dead.

 

“What are you doing in my office, Madam Umbridge?”

 

Hermione edged around the feuding adults to Harry’s side. Passing him a scrap of paper, A note about a change in plans for the hearing, but in her handwriting and not on official letterhead. This- this wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair! It was self-defense! It was supposed to be a pro-forma meeting with Madams Bones and Marchbanks, not a _trial_.

 

“As Undersecretary to the Minister I can requisition the use of any ministry resources that I need to complete the duties I am assigned!”

 

“If the duties the Minister assigned you include private meetings with underage wizards who do not know you,” Arthur steamed, “I’m more than capable of bringing _you_ before Madam Bones, Madam!”

 

“Why I have never been so insulted!” The toad-like woman screeched as she got to her feet.

 

“Then you’ll have no problem leaving my office!”

 

Molly Weasley shouted. She’d sent the twins a howler a week since Harry had been attending school with them. He was more than familiar with her shouting. But Mr. Weasley? Harry had never seen the man raise his voice in anger the entire time he’d know the older gentleman. Harry was actually pretty honored for the man to have done it for him.

 

“Merlin this is a mess.” Mr. Weasley said as he collapsed into a chair. “The woman’s always been a harridan but to go this far? You know for certain the time and location of the meeting was changed, Hermione?”

 

The witch nodded, “Yes. I don’t know where Courtroom 10 is, but I have a map. We’ll need to get going soon.”

 

The man waved a hand, “I know a back way to the courtrooms. But 10?” He shook his head, “I have never in thirty years of ministry career, ever heard of a trial for underage magic use.”

 

“Not even for a potential break in the Statute of Secrecy?”

 

“No, not even.”

 

“Umbrage said somethings,” Harry said, “I don’t think that this is just about the dementor.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Sorry,” Hermione reached out and shook the clock on Mr. Weasley’s desk. Then showed the older man her watch, “We’re going to be late!”

 

He jumped up with a curse and grabbed Harry as they dashed to the opposite end of the hall. 

 

Arthur had them skidding into the Courtroom just minutes before the start time of the trial.

 

“I can’t go any further with you,” the older wizard said, taking a seat, panting, near the doors. “Don’t worry too much about being alone. So long as you tell the truth, it can’t be too bad.”

 

Which was not at all Harry’s experience with the wizarding world. After all, hadn’t the very Ministry spent the entire summer lying about him? Hermione followed him up to the table and chairs set before the imposing collection of wizards and witches. Setting her collection of parchments and books down.

 

“Don’t worry,” She smiled, “I have a plan.”

 

“I’m not sure it’s going to matter,” Harry nodded up at the tiers of arranged collection of witches and wizards. “Kids don’t get to argue before courts.”

 

“They do if they intend to bring kids before a court.” She murmured in reply. It looked like Minister Fudge was about to bring the court to order.

 

“Order. Order. Thank you, gentle wizards and witches.” He gestured grandiosely with the ornate gavel in his hand. “Now, young miss this is no place for you. You can see your friend after his trial,” he smirked, and both teens got the feeling that if the minister had his way, there would be no ‘after the trial’. “Now, Aurors please escort this child out of the Courtroom.”

 

“That’s a little bit of a double standard don’t you think, Minister?” Hermione projected, or maybe she’d cast a spell because she certainly had everyone’s attention.

 

“Young girl,” Fudge sputtered, “this is a court of law! No bias or prejudice can be allowed while ruling on Justice! We must be impartial!”

 

Hermione snorted, she had to wonder who’d fed the man that dramatic speech. As much as the Lords and Ladies in the second tier nodded, she knew exactly how impartial the ministry’s criminal court _wasn_ _’t_. After all, Lucius Malfoy still had his seat.

 

“I’m a year older than Harry, Minister.” She sorted through her parchments. “If I’m a child, then so is he.”

 

“Potter is under special circumstances and-”

 

“Pursuant to the Acceptable Court Procedures Act of 1879, no child under the age of majority is to be tried before members of Wizengamot. No orphan is to be charged at all without the presence of his or her guardian. And no minor Lord may face charges without the acceptance of his Regent.” She looked around at the faces surrounding them. “I don’t see any such figures for my friend, Minister Fudge.”

 

“That’s ridiculous!” Delores objects, looming over the two teens arranged before the court.

 

Hermione shakes her head, “What’s ridiculous is this farce of a trial! Minors are not handled in front of the Wizengamot; minors have never been handled by the Wizengamot!”

 

Harry is mildly amused, certainly would have been much more so if it wasn’t _his_ trial, by his friend rigorously waving her research in the adults’ faces.

 

Delores sputtered, “As Minister Fudge said, this is a special case! Harry Potter is the last Scion of Clan Potter, a powerful figure in our society. The people have a right to know that a dangerously powerful child has broken our most important tenant!”

 

“Regardless of who Harry is, he’s a minor who has committed a misdemeanor! He should not be facing the Wizengamot!”

 

Amelia interrupted, frowning, “Intentionally breaking the statute of Secrecy is a felony, Miss…”

 

“Hermione Granger, Madam Bones. Harry is not guilty of breaking the Statute of Secrecy; all he’s guilty of - and I would argue, not guilty at all - is breaking the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic.”

 

Madam Bones shuffled through her papers, cutting Fudge and his undersecretary off when the two appeared ready to cut in. “The Court notes state that Mr. Potter knowingly and willingly conducted magic in front of a muggle on a muggle street.”

 

“The muggle in question was his cousin, a member of his family who - residing in the same house as he is already knowledgeable about magic and exempt from the Statute. Furthermore, he did it to protect against a Dementor. Which I argue is a _reasonable_ breach of the restriction.”

 

Fudge, having turned a color much closer to plum than his normal complexion, shouted, “Convenient! Very convenient! Dementors cannot be seen by muggles! Harry Potter is a mentally ill young man and has a record of violations of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery! There were no Dementors! Couldn’t possibly be, they’re all in the control of the Ministry!”

 

Hermione just raised her brow in retaliation, more than willing to argue that the _Ministry_ might have lost control, or even sought her friend’s murder. “Regardless of whether or not the Dementors were there, and they were, is still a misdemeanor and not a crime qualified to necessitate a trial before the entire Wizengamot!”

 

Harry noted from where he watched the entire debacle very quietly from a very uncomfortable chair that the more irritated his friend became, the frizzier and frizzier her hair got. The type of accidental magic that he was sure he’d never heard mentioned before. Though, perhaps he could bring it up with Professor Flitwick. After all, there was no way Hermione was going to lose this argument.

Madam Bones leaned forward, “Ms. Granger, do you have any evidence of what occurred? Any proof that the Dementors were there?”

 

Hermione “Pensieve evidence is admissible-”

 

A loud bell rang as the doors into the courtroom opened to admit Headmaster Dumbledore and an elderly woman in a knit sweater and cap. 

 

“Dumbledore! This is a closed courtroom!” Fudge yelled.

 

“I’ll remind you, Minister Fudge, we never started the trial.” Madam Bones noted, “Which is just as well, as the Head of the DMLE I do not make it a habit to break the law. If Ms. Granger is correct, and there was a Dementor in his Muggle town, then a trial would have been a grave miscarriage of justice. Do you have something to add, Chief Warlock?”

 

Dumbledore blinked, a little startled, “I have a witness for the defense, if you please, Madam Bones.”

“You’re late!” Fudge shouted, “All evidence and witnesses must be entered _before_ the trial begins!”

 

“Ah, but mistakes due to clerical errors have been excused before.” Dumbledore twinkled aggressively at the annoying politician, “And as Madam Bones has said - this is not a trial, yet.”

 

“Clerical Error! Why I never-”

 

“Do calm down, Minister Fudge,” Amelia Bones said dryly, “before you have a heart attack. What happened Dumbledore?”

 

Dumbledore walked forward and handed her the letters addressed to both himself and Harry. Which, Hermione frowned, was not good. If Dumbledore was receiving Harry’s mail without a good reason, that was a criminal offense right there. “Harry and I received the wrong directions. Clearly the time and location on this letter is an error; because any change of time or location must be given at least 48 hours in advance of the meeting. Per Wizengamot law.”

 

Madam Bones looked thoughtful as she ran a series of spells over the parchment. “This has the seal. And the date is only yesterday. I vote on allowing the evidence. All in favor?” An overwhelming number of the Wizengamot members offer green lights on the tips of their wands and the woman nods. “Motion passes. Dumbledore, please seat your witness.”

Mrs. Figg took a seat in the witness box, shifting in the hard chair and plopping her handbag right in her lap.

 

“Your name for the record, Madam?”

 

“Arabella Fig.”

 

“Mrs. Fig,” Madam Bones began, “as a witness for the defense do you swear to tell the truth?”

 

“I do.”

 

Harry leaned over to discretely poke his friend, “There are no compulsion spells or truth charms worked into that box, are there?”

 

“No,” Hermione bit her lip. “The Wizengamot ruled in 1784 that the application of such spells was dangerous to the health of the young, the old, and the infirm, and an undue stress on any who might be called to testify. Veritaserum is only allowed in certain special cases.”

 

“Undue stress,” Harry snorted, “you mean inconvenient on liars.”

 

“Perhaps,” Hermione said, most of her attention was focused on the examination of the witness.

 

Amelia frowned. Dementors in muggle Britain. Insane. “It appears there were Dementors, in which case, the Patronus Charm is not only a reasonable violation of the Decree but the only way to save young Mr. Potter’s life and that of his cousin. I-”

 

Undersecretary Umbrage, that odious woman, pokes Fudge to interrupt. “Amelia, really! This woman is a squib! Her word cannot be trusted-”

 

“Minister Fudge!” Amelia Bones yelled, she appeared as frustrated with the politician’s grandstanding as Harry and Hermione were. “So long as she has magic enough to see the Dementors I don’t care if she’s a transfiguration project! She validates that the Dementors were there, that she was going for help even as she saw Mr. Potter cast the Patronus Charm! Vote to dismiss-”

 

“Hem hem.” Umbrage interrupts, “I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘Acquit’. A record must be kept of Mr. Potter’s disregard for our society, even if this time it was a _reasonable_ violation.”

 

Hermione frowns. There’s something there. Some issue that she doesn’t understand all the parts to. Regardless of what the woman would like them to think, the Undersecretary was no friend of Harry’s. If she wanted this particular process it was because she would get something out of it. But maybe that something was simply a blemish on Harry’s record.

 

She would look it up once they returned to Grimmauld Place. Maybe even an Acquittal could hold harry back from the Auror Academy or some other government positions. Not every locked door had a cerberus behind it.

 

Though, with Harry’s luck the odds went up a significant amount. 

 

Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement actually rolled her eyes at the pretentious toad. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. Vote to acquit Mr. Potter of all charges. All in favor?” Green lights lit all over the Wizengamot wands. “All against?” Far fewer in number. “Motion passes. Weasley! Get Mr. Potter his paperwork!”

 

Percy frowned, hesitating at handing over the paperwork, but whatever was on his mind he decided against saying it. Eventually passing Harry the parchment with his official acquittal and the signatures of both Amelia Bones and Cornelius Fudge. “Harry.”

 

“Thank you, Percy.” Hermione says as she stuffs the unneeded parchments and books back into a semblance of order. One wary eye on the crowd of adults waiting for Harry’s attention and the second on Dumbledore chatting with Mr. Weasley by the doors. Her odds of escaping without a lecture in front of the entire government didn’t look good. “We’d love to stop and chat, but we need to go.”

 

“Hermione,” Harry drawled, letting himself get dragged along by the arm. “What are you so concerned with?”

 

She forwarded their way through the teeming crowds of wizards and witches, “I have no desire whatsoever to be called to task by -” Blinding and garish robes of shooting stars and muggle rockets stepped in her way. “Headmaster Dumbledore, we were just on our way - home.”

 

“Thank you, Arthur,” the man was saying, his stern appearance quite at odds with his sartorial choices. “I hope your work day gets better. I’ll make sure the children get back to headquarters safely.”

 

“Sure, sure.” The Weasley Patriarch nodded, shifting the wizarding hat on his head. “Harry, Hermione, have a good afternoon.”

 

The two teenagers offered their goodbyes and waited impatiently for the old headmaster to move or say something. Hermione’s hand on Harry’s arm kept his bitter words behind his teeth, but both knew it wouldn’t last forever.

 

“Now, children.” The headmaster frowned down at them, “I believe it’s time to get you back to where you belong.”

 

Dumbledore doesn’t do anything as crass as physically holding them, but there’s the distinct sensation that no option was acceptable except for the two teenagers to follow the headmaster. Hermione walked straight backed right through the floo and back into the kitchen at headquarters. Harry wasn’t sure what was going on beyond the fact that the girl who thought expulsion was worse than death had disobeyed the stated or implicit directions of the Headmaster. She’d saved him.

 

Not by accident or fortunate timing, but because Hermione Granger was not the type of witch to let anything get in her way. She’d slogged through books and case files all night, to be prepared. She’d faced off against Mrs. Weasley, argued with the director of the DMLE, and looked down her nose at the Undersecretary of the minister of magic.

 

It didn’t wipe away the past. Harry ached from the lonely summer he’d spent communicating one way with the people stalking him. Hermione had been part of that damage, but here she was putting it on the line - refusing to trust that the adults in their life had everything covered. It reminded him of why - a troll, a time turner, and a dragon hadn’t been the end of their friendship when saner women would have run screaming.

 

He wanted to thank her, for the effort she’d put into his defense, for the risk she’d taken. But he couldn’t. Harry’s hands wouldn’t reach out to her, and his lips wouldn’t make the words. The ache in his heart from the silent summer wasn’t going to just go away because of this. But he wanted it to.

 

And maybe that was the most important part.

 

“Ms. Granger, I understand that you were trying to help, but you could have very well done damage today.” The normally cheerful old man sat at the head of the table and frowned at the brightest witch of the age. The adults arranged around the table grumbled.

 

“It was actually a very good thing I was there, and prepared,” Hermione countered, setting down her stack of books on the kitchen table. “You were late Professor Dumbledore. How much damage could Fudge and his croonies have done to Harry before you arrived?”

 

“Harry is in a very dangerous place right now.” Both teens frowned at the older man’s ability to talk about Harry as though he weren’t there. “Drawing more attention to him - such as being the first trial with an underage barrister - could only put him further at risk from Voldemort.” the old man sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “You trust me, Ms. Granger, don’t you? What you did today was very dangerous.”

 

Hermione bit her lip, refused to look away, and straightened her spine. “I don’t know. I trusted you to take care of my best friend, to put his best interests first. And you didn’t. But I believe you _thought_ you were. I- Don’t ask me that. Because I can’t say yes.”

 

Dumblerdore was all wide eyes and lax mouth. Shocked at the girl’s blunt honesty and audacity. Generations after the War with Grindelwald and he was still a figure of power and reverence. Perhaps not the same level he was at before Voldemort’s rise, but even former Death Eaters didn’t openly admit they distrusted him.

 

“Hermione Granger!” Molly Weasley barked, “How dare you!?! Headmaster Dumbledore is a great man! You are here because-”

 

“It is my house.” Sirius interrupted from where he leaned against the counter. He didn’t appear impressed with any of the adults gathered. “As a friend of Harry’s and a muggleborn, well known in the press, she was in danger at her parents’ house.” Frowning at Molly when she goes to speak again. “I don’t care what you have to say, Molly. Everyone is here, _at my house_ , by _my invitation_. Don’t speak to my guests that way. Besides,” He gives an indolent shrug, “Hermione is allowed her opinion. There’s nothing illegal about not trusting Dumbledore. We’re all allowed our own opinions no matter how inflammatory they are - or am I allowed to kill Snape now?”

 

The Adults around the table gaped, and Dumbledore frowned at the Lord-Apparent of the Black House. 

 

“Hogwarts student-” Fred leaned back in his seat.

 

George leaned forwards, “-defends in a Wizengamot trial?”

 

The older twin gave a certain nod, “Best prank ever, due congratulations Ms. Grangers.”

 

“Be careful, we’ll be after that title again.” The younger twin gave a sharp smile,

 

Hermione smirked, “Really boys. Don’t prevaricate. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

 

The twins shared a suspicious look before grins broke out. “Agreed. We’re masters. So happy to help.”

 

Molly Weasley flipped on them like they’d admitted to cursing a unicorn; as though Hermione wasn’t the brightest witch in the age and perfectly capable of getting to the Ministry of Magic on her own. Though, give the devils their due, without the twins Hermione wouldn’t have arrived at the precise moment and place to catch wind of Fudge and Malfoy’s conspiracy. Who knows what would have happened then?

 

“What do you mean ‘help’? Fred! George!” The twins wisely retreated at their caterwauling mother. Hermione appreciated their sacrifice. “What did you help with?! Don’t think I won’t come up there! Fred! George!”

 

The Twins were a good distraction for more than taking heat off of Hermione. Harry was slipping out. He’d had enough of the focus and wisdom of the adults in his life today. He just wanted out and away. Wanted to not think about how screwed up it was that everything in his life was dangerous, monitored and watched. Like he couldn’t be trusted to pick his own books or tie his own shoes. Like he was an idiot in a straight jacket, couldn’t be trusted with his own safety. He just wanted away.

 

Hermione caught his hand on the stairs just outside the kitchen and Harry froze. He didn’t know what to do. On one hand he still hurt badly, the memory of screaming and crying in the middle of the night, of the desperate letters he wrote and stained with tears was fresh in his mind - and she never answered a single one. But this was also the girl he’d rescued from a troll, who’d answered riddles for him, who laid petrified in stone for an entire school year with the answer in her hand.

 

More than anything this was the girl who’d just faced down the entire Wizarding government and Albus Dumbledore because Hermione Granger had many flaws, but she always learned from her mistakes. “I-I can’t Hermione. I know you’re trying. I know this is supposed to- but I can’t just forget it.”

 

Hermione nodded, blinking away moisture in her eyes. She let go of his wrist. “Okay, Harry.”

 

He didn’t look back as he fled up the stairs, avoiding the very loud argument on the second floor where Molly Weasley eviscerated her sons verbally, for the sanctuary of the third-floor library. He didn’t look back and see his godfather join his friend on the first-floor landing, but he did spare a thought to wonder that even loving families could be abusive.

 

“You did good to let him go,” Sirius said leaning on the wall next to where Hermione had settled on the floor. He wanted to have the words to fix this. To put a smile on the young woman’s face, to banish the nightmares that haunted his godson’s sleep. As he had learned so well in Azkaban - somethings were just pipe dreams.

 

“I hope so.” Hermione let out a heavy sigh.

 

“Sometimes, no matter that you want to forgive people, or you want to understand why something that hurt you so much it left scars was an attempt to help - you hurt so bad you can’t.” He felt wrung out and old. Old like the reflection in the mirror and the years he’d spent wrapped up in dreams that had all the substance of fairy dust. “Just - just don’t stop trying. Just don’t stop. One day Harry is going to wake up and it won’t hurt so bad. And on that day, he’ll come back because you’re still waiting.”

 

“What if he never forgives me?” Hermione whispered, “What if even years later he’s hurt too badly to forgive me?”

 

“Then it becomes an issue of what you want,” Sirius said. “Is there a point at which you won’t wait anymore? Or can you learn to keep a piece of your heart set aside just for Harry? No matter what happens?”

 

The young woman straightened up, wiping the tears from her eyes with the cuff of her sweater. “I made a promise that I would always support Harry. I’m not going to break it the first time it gets hard.”

 

“Be careful with that promise, lass.” Sirius frowned at the barest glimmer he had seen around the young woman as she’d mention that promise. “Promises can be serious things for magicals, but more than that - sometimes supporting someone means smacking them upside the head.” He gave wry smile. “Lily was more than known for a kind of tough love. James went through more bruise balm during her pregnancy than he’d ever used on the Quidditch team.”

 

“She sounds like an amazing woman.”

 

“She was.”

 -  **Part 2 -**

The Minister’s Undersecretary didn’t bother with being polite. She pushed through the crowds lingering in the halls and swatted the animated memos out of hand. The work of decades, centuries even, had been accomplished today and she couldn’t wait to see the proof. She didn’t have time to deal with this stuff. She was getting her dream come true, and no one would stop her from being there to see it.

 

Down in the floors beneath the ministry, under the control of the Department of Mysteries, was the archives of the government. It held within its hallowed walls a great number of magical artifacts and documents that the public would never see. It was for the best. The public of the Magical United Kingdom couldn’t be trusted with the truth.

 

They were unsophisticated sheep. Easily led by those in power and easily cowed and convinced of the measures the Ministry was required to take for the benefit of everyone. Delores wasn’t surprised by the number of dark lords and ladies that had risen to take England. Only that none of her previous kin had ever gained the seat she sought. Wizarding Great Britain was going to put her on her forefather’s throne, and they were going to thank her for the pleasure of it.

 

In one of the oldest cases, behind containment wards and monitoring spells laid the document she had come to see. The one that untold generations of her family had sought the ruination of. The treaty between CaeirMor and Pendragon.

 

She really would have to thank that ghastly fool Voldemort. For centuries the Potter Clan had been careful and studious and complete ruthless bastards in protecting their rights and their clan. Without that upstart that dark lord, Harry Potter would have never been naive enough to sit in the court of the Wizengamot and accept their ruling.

 

Perhaps the charges didn’t stick, and that mudblood upstart was going to find out exactly how dangerous it was to make an enemy of Madam Umbrage, but the Potter child had sat in the Wizengamot and accepted their right to rule over him. He was the head of the clan even. The last of his clan. Delores couldn’t have been happier if the Dementors had killed him.

 

Perhaps she would have even been sad. Centuries of work to annihilate the thorn in their side that was the Potter Clan and she might not have seen it. Now, though, she could bask in the glory of a plan well-constructed. And start on her acceptance speech, of course.

 

“Dela?” The minister called, making his way back to the case she was looking at. “Did the Acquittal work?”

 

“Corny, love,” Delores refused to tear her eyes away from the gently glowing document. “How is Lucius?”

 

“Well enough,” Cornelius Fudge huffed, “commiserated with me over the damn child getting away. Like the Malfoy House wouldn’t relish in Harry Potter’s death just as much as we would. Greased my palm too, some upcoming legislation on Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. I took it of course, we’ll see what Dumbledore tries.”

 

Delores gestured to her lover, pulling him up to the ward line on the case. “Did you know, Corny, that this document was actually spelled into existence long after the original agreement was made?”

 

“Why on Earth would they do that?” Her love asked befuddled.

 

Delores scoffed, “They were opening the borders between the two groups. Wanted a way to show that the treaty held - to keep people in line. 500 hundred years ago, the sons of King Arthur were convinced that there was nothing more dangerous than a CaeirMor. The fools didn’t want war.”

 

“CaeirMor?” Cornelius asked, trying to wrap his tongue around the unfamiliar name.

 

“They’re the Clan, the Potters are descended from.” Delores clarified. She wiggled in place, pressing her face up against the warmth of the containment ward. “It’s happening!”

The glow of the ancient treaty was slowly fading until the document was dull and brittle with age. The only magic left in it highlighting the broken clauses. Soon it would be as though it hadn’t ever been magical.

 

“Perfect.” Delores breathed, fingers itching to take up the document. To rip and tear, to make sure that none knew of the weakness her House had labored under. Perhaps when she was queen. For now, the ward line would keep back any who were looking to cause damage to the artifact, even when it wasn’t magical anymore.  

 

“Wha- what happened?” Cornelius squinted at the lifeless velum. “It was magic!”

 

“Surely, you’ve seen magical documents before, Cornelius. The treaty is broken. We can go forward with the plan; as soon as we start to see an actual breakdown on the threshold, we can propose the return of the throne.” Delores gave her lover a gleeful smile, “Just to raise the magic again, of course.”

 

“Of course,” The Minister for Magic refused to acknowledge how nauseous his lover’s smile made him. Or how nervous he was about this plan, in general. “But I don’t know, Dela. You didn’t say that the magic would fall. What if something happens? Without the threshold spells we’re vulnerable to attack from the muggles! They have a lot of power if our protection is revoked.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cornelius.” Delores huffed, muggles with power over magicals - what idiocy was her lover caught up in now? “What’s going to happen, honestly! The muggles are no danger to us! We have magic! They have sticks and stones and those ridiculous and slow-moving machines. They’re no match for us. Get your head back together my dear, we don’t have any time to lose.”

 

“Think, Dela! If nothing else, with the treaty broken we could fall under the jurisdiction of the Muggles. The government could fall! This treaty keeps the muggles out, with it failing we could come under the jurisdiction of the muggles!”

 

Delores took a deep breath and reminded herself that she loved Cornelius. He made her day brighter and was always willing to support her house. He would be the perfect consort, eternally willing to follow without any desire or ambition that would screw with her plans. “The Muggle throne destroyed their relationship with magic; after the witch burnings, Magic in England will never let any who sit on the muggle throne in the Ministry of Magic without consequences. If they’re smart, we’ll only need to remind them of the fact. If not, well, the current muggle royalty has more spare heirs than most purebloods. Perhaps they’ll ruin themselves in a civil war over who will get dear old mummy’s throne.”

 

“Fine, not the muggles.” Cornelius capitulated, “But what about the ICW taking over or Vol-vol-vol,” he made a frustrated noise, “What about you-know-who?”

 

“You shouldn’t worry such, love. We’ll have everything handled well before the ICW even becomes aware of it. And the Dark Lord?” she scoffed, “What could he possibly want with two purebloods like us? Once I sit on Arthur’s throne no one in the kingdom would dare question me. Not even the Dark Lord.”

 

Cornelius was a cautious person by nature. It was Delores who had catapulted his career from minor bureaucrat to Minister for Magic. He had always trusted that she knew the best way to deal with their goals. But for once Cornelius shivered, regretted that Delores was not more likely to listen to him. Something about this was not going to go well. Not at all.

**-** **Part 3 -**

It wasn't Tom's job to judge. It was written in the _Leaky_ 's charter to provide unbiased and unprejudiced service to anyone who walked through the doors. And it was a policy that had kept the doors open for the last four hundred years.

 

Which wasn't to say that the barkeep didn't know that some of his clients weren't what they seemed or paid in stolen coin. That wasn't his business. His job was just to keep the _Leaky_ in good running condition as a neutral location and the entrance to the Alley.

 

The boys that tumbled through the door at half-past three were something else. Jabbering about 'footie' and something about the newest 'doctor' and the woman who 'played' his 'companion'. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He didn't know any muggleborns who were willing to flaunt their status like this. Especially as one stared down at his slim box and complained about service.

 

"'Lo bruv." One young man came up to the counter. "Great digs ya got here. Just opened up? Real tourist shite?"

 

Tom frowned, "Thank ye, but we've been here plenty long."

 

"Looks it." Another boy muttered while a third elbowed him for being rude.

 

"Odd, never seen it before." And Tom cast his gaze frantically through his dining room. Certainly, there should be at least one Auror! "What's the special then, bruv?"

 

"Beef pot pie, two rolls and a glass of butterbeer or pumpkin juice. One sickled, two knuts."

 

"What the fuck's butter beer?"

 

"Is the sickle dessert?"

 

"Maybe it's a scone? Sounds like a scone."

 

"Doesn't sound bad." The wide grin had fallen off the lad's face as the other diners realized what had happened and attention narrowed in on the three boys. "How much for three plates then, guv?"

 

"Three sickles, six knuts." Tom replied as blandly as he could, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't take long.

 

"Sickles?" the boy with the box scowled. "What the fuck is a sickle? We're in London, why the fuck don't you take pounds?"

 

"Don't know what a sickle is? Then this ain't the place for you."

 

"Listen bruv-"

 

Tom never did get to hear what he was supposed to listen for, because Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped out of the floo and stunned them in a single smooth motion.

 

"Auror, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" Tom said , relaxing his grip on his wand behind the counter. "Some sorta alarm rung?"

 

Two in DOM purple hustled an awkward contraption through the pub and out the door to the muggle world.

 

"Juniper Jones slipped out the back and apparated out to the DLME once she was certain they were muggles." Shacklebolt explained. "You haven't had any work done on the place recently, right?" At Tom's negative, the Auror let out a weighty sigh. "I didn't think so. Someone will probably need to see you ward stone, but for now I need to have a chat with these boys here."

 

Tom was more than happy to lend a back room to the BLME while he got on with his work. Pleased, though, that it was over for now.

 

[Around the same time, on a hike through Scotland]

 

Stumbling a little off the path, the first of three friends slumps down to sit on an enormous root. "I know these forests were old, but these trees are huge!"

 

"Ladies, come check this out!" One young woman hollered form up ahead.

 

"They're big," the third friend agreed, dropping her bag by the sitting friend - it must weigh more than she did, her shoulders hurt. "Hey girlfriend, what's the rule about staying in sight?!"

 

"No, I know what you're going to say," The girl at the base of the tree said digging through her bag for the map. "But who's the ecology major? Not you. I think we're lost."

 

"How are we lost?" Her friend asked, spilling more water than she drank. "We're been following the route you plotted. Not a single wrong turn!"

 

"And I'm certain the map didn't have anything about an old growth forest near here!"

 

"Bitches!" Came the shout from their missing friend, "you really need to see this!"

 

Sighing at being left behind, the girl with the map holstered herself up. Just barely hearing her friends.

 

"Watch your fucking language!"

 

Map in hand she came out of the woods onto the set of a movie. No, into a movie.

 

A small village sat in the lee of their hill, like something from Tolkien. you could hear the hustle and bustle of the village where they stood. Far too quaint to be a gimmick. And rising above them in the distance was the most beautiful castle she'd ever seen. Turrets and towers with glittering glass windows. It was on a rise and oversaw a beautiful clear lake. It was unreal. She'd never seen anything like it.

 

She checked the map to be sure. Yep. Not there. "So, we're really really lost. There's not supposed to be a castle there."

 

Their missing friend - now standing in front bouncing with glee - squealed. "Isn't it amazing!?"

 

"No." The last girl was done. She'd read this book before. Didn't matter the genre it never ended well for the clueless young women who stumble out of the woods. Taking three steps forward she grabbed the over-excited girl and marched back into the forest. "If this is outlander, I'm not fan of their hygiene. And I refuse to be an extra in Dracula. Come on, Girlie!" She called back over her shoulder, ignoring the squirming of the friend in her grasp. "We're gonna need that bloody map!"

 

[In Hogwarts]

Albus encourage the staff that summered in the castle to eat together in the Great Hall. Let them call it enforced socialization, he didn't care. He was missing it though.

 

The wards kept going off. A constant there and gone buzz-flash of danger. It sent his heart pounding and his nerves on fire each time it happened. He wasn't the only one though, all the staff were tied to the wards, but he was the only one with access to the ward room. So instead of harassing his staff about their daily adventures, he was standing in front of the Hogwarts ward scheme in the room under the Great Hall.

 

Quite unusual for the time, and very brilliant, the ward scheme for Hogwarts was imbedded in the rock and mortar the castle was built out of. Not laid over top as even modern wards were. Then those wards had been tied to a miniature version of the school and grounds. Within this room, and in front of the display Dumbledore could see every magic and action of intent on the property that violated the original wards.

 

It was perfect. The original wards were strict in some places - flat out kept tabs on most of the students and staff - which Albus couldn't honestly figure out. As far as he could tell it didn't have a pattern, some staff and student, being completely light in their magic and from law abiding families were nonetheless watched by the wards like they carried Azkaban's own mark. Pomphrey was watched, but not Minerva. Hagrid and Lupin, but not Filius.

 

He'd added the ward for the dark mark, and other wards had been added by headmaster's in the past. One added in the twenties for Grindelwald's mark was still active. And one particularly nasty headmaster in the 1800s had added a ward for keeping track of muggleborns. The problem then became that wards could be added easily enough, over the building not in the mortar, but they were much harder to dismantle.

 

So Albus had to shift aside all the newer wards and separate the different layers to figure out which one was lighting up like a lightning storm.

 

It was only after he'd shifted the wards around that he saw something truly unnerving. The muggle repelling ward had fallen. Added in the 1600s it was a spectacular piece of magic done in concert with over a hundred other witches and wizards. And the stones that locked the ward in place lay like a muggle's carved bauble. No more magical than asphalt.

 

The alarm lighting up the staff nerves was the forget-me-forever. Part of the original wards, it was -strictly speaking- a war ward that cast a mild precursor of obliviate on those 'dangerous to the house'. It had fallen out of favor when the combination of obliviate and repelling wards had been created. People had gotten uncomfortable with exactly how aware that ward could get.

 

“Albus,” Minerva called from the doorway, “you’ve been down here for hours. Have you found anything?”

 

Letting go of the visualization, the headmaster stalked back to the door. “I fear it is not good news.”

 

The Deputy Headmistress subjected him to the driest look she had, “Dumbledore you fool. The wards have been lighting up like Fairies during Yule! Or the Weasley twins’ fireworks! We already knew it wasn’t good! We need to know if it can be fixed!”

 

Albus refused to quail from Scottish Fury, “yes, well, perhaps we should-”

 

“No!” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You will call an Order meeting, and you will invite the staff, and you will tell us exactly what you found in the wardroom.” The animagus gave a particularly frustrated hiss, “And if I find out that you conveniently left anything out, you will be combing chewing gum from your beard - for a year! Clear?”

 

“Very, Minerva.”

 

“I’ll make sure the meeting will be at eight in the Great Hall. Don’t be late.”

 

At 8 o'clock sharp Albus made his way into the Great Hall to explain what he understood of the issue the wards at Hogwarts were suffering under. He would have preferred to put it off. Perhaps given time and research he could unravel the issue and the more people who knew about the problem with the wards, the more chance there was that it would get back to some unscrupulous fellow, such as one of Tom's followers, and they would take advantage of the school in its vulnerability.

 

Minerva had given him no choice, however. Insisting on an explanation for both the staff and the Order members. It was fortunate that the ministry had not yet placed their Defense teacher. Everyone else he could trust, but he had a sinking suspicion that the ministry's options for Defense instructor would be no better than his last options.

 

Which really had turned out quite bad, regardless of how optimistic of them he had been seeing their resumes.

 

"Well, Albus?" Minerva cut to the chance, giving him no more time to request a glass of water, then gather his mind. "What did you find out about the wards?"

 

"There's something wrong with the wards?" Molly Weasley seemed shocked. She placed a lot of emphasis on Hogwarts being the safest location in Britain. And it was. There were just some ... vulnerabilities Albus had never owned up to fixing. Seeing as how none of the other Headmasters in the last four or five hundred years had exactly left directions.

 

"Some sort of ward has been pinging us all day," Pomona frowned. "I didn't think that wards degraded like that. But - Hogwarts is old."

 

"Old enough," Albus cut in, dodging the pointed heel that his deputy kicked his way, "that the warning alarm of the staff have been receiving is actually from a previously dormant ward scheme designed to turn away danger."

 

There were murmurs and gasps all up and down the table. The headmaster could even see that he had caught the attention of both Sybil Trelawny and his potion's professor. Unusual to say the least, but these were not common times.

 

"Is it from the Forest?" One member asked.

 

"Death Eaters trying to get through the wards?" Another suggested.

 

Albus rose from his seat so that all gathered would be able to hear and see him, and in no small way to avoid Minerva's pointy shoes. "Please, be calm! This danger comes from above. Muggle aeroplanes are setting off the dissuasion ward as they come into range of Hogwarts. It is nothing to be alarmed over."

 

"What happened to the muggle repelling ward?" Bill Weasley asked. "Surely that should be keeping the aeroplanes away?"

 

He hesitated, taking a sip of water and the time to gather his thoughts. Was it really necessary to get all these people upset over what could be a bit of dirt over a runic inscription?

 

"Muggle repelling wards are falling all over the world." Arthur finally spoke into the silence. "The ministry is trying to cover it up, but the ICW has literally received notice from every magical country with a government. I don't understand why some are falling and others aren't, but many of the wards the keep magical kind separate from muggles are breaking."

 

Arthur had his undivided attention. "This is widely known?"

 

"They're trying to keep people from panicking, but too many people are involved to really keep it a secret." The Weasley patriarch shrugged lightly. "The ICW has temporary solution that'll go into effect sometime tonight, and an envoy is coming tomorrow to 'assistant in finding a more permanent solution'."

 

"You probably have an emergency notification already on its way." Minerva commented.

 

And it was so, because not a moment later a Ministry owl was flying through the window of the Great hall. An urgent request for his presence gripped in its talons. A convenient excuse to get of listening to whatever thing his deputy wanted to harass him about now. Though it wouldn't save his ears later.

 

Albus was happy enough to consign that concern to the back of his mind, more urgent matters to be dealt with first.


End file.
